Chapter 16
Sixteen
Vicky
The sheets are damp. Alex sleeps.
And I lie awake, his cum drying on my thighs, my body sore.
I’m lying in the bed of the man I love, who just fucked me like I’ve never been fucked before, even though I told him no. Repeatedly told him no.
He ignored me, and part of me is glad he did.
The other part?
I don’t know what the hell the other part of me is thinking.
That I should leave. That I should stay. That I should unblock his number. That I should skip the state, or maybe the country.
His arm pins me, his hand cups my breast even as he sleeps.
It’s supposed to be comforting, and maybe it is.
Okay, it is.
But that doesn’t mean I want it.
Fuck, I don’t know what I want.
I know what I need. I need space. I need time to process this. Time to think clearly, when I don’t have to inhale the scent of our sex, and when my body’s recovered from the abuse it’s taken.
He spanked me. Pinned me down, and spanked me.
God, it was hot.
No. Not hot. Wrong.
Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Vicky.
Great. Now I’m arguing with myself.
It’s proof I need to get out of here. I need to be anywhere Alex is not.
I need to go home, because this is not it.
An apartment I’ve barely seen before? A bed with sheets that I don’t know who’s used?
He kissed that bitch. I saw him.
“No,” he said. “She kissed me.”
“That doesn’t make any difference.”
“Yes, it does.”
“You could’ve stopped her.”
“I did.”
Did he, though? I didn’t see that. All I saw was his mouth on hers as my stomach dropped out. And now I can't unknow that image, can't unfeel what it did to me.
I hate that it did anything at all.
Maybe he did stop her. Maybe I’d turned away already. Maria might’ve seen… much good does it do me. I don’t have her number, and even if I asked her, she’d probably tell me whatever amused her the most. That woman’s dangerous.
Amelia might’ve seen. Her number, I have. My one win from the evening. That, and a brief dance with her husband, before Alex pulled me off the dance floor like I was out past curfew.
Now, Cinderella did have that problem. But it was midnight, not an overly domineering male.
I’m losing the plot. My world is suddenly full of Disney characters. Is this how I go mad, lost in a world of badly animated 1950s films?
I need to get out of here. I need my own bed, some ice cream, a hot bath. To book an appointment at the salon tomorrow.
Jesus, Vicky.
Okay, scratch that last one.
Alex’s arm is heavy, but I wriggle sideways, lifting it, each movement slow and quiet. If he wakes, I’ll be in the shit. I know I will. Worst case, he gets irritated and we start all over again.
My body clenches tight at the thought.
That might not be worst case.
No, it would be. I’m too sore to endure any more.
Actually, worst case he tells me to stay put, and if I try and leave, the belt will come out.
I swallow at the thought. Would he do it? Is he bluffing?
Hell, yes he’d do it. He spanked me hard.
Fucked me harder.
God, I came even harder still. Twice. No, three times… another when he released inside me.
I fucking orgasmed just from him coming inside me. What the hell is wrong with me?
I hate that I love him. I hate that I respond to him like this. Loving him makes me vulnerable.
How do I turn off love?
Wait… how do I turn off love when he makes me orgasm from spanking me? Then calls me ‘good girl’ and makes me lift my ass for him? Then forces me to beg him to fuck me?
Jesus Christ. I am so, so screwed.
I redouble my efforts to get out from beneath his arm.
Every move, slow. Don’t disturb the bed.
Don’t nudge him. I’m out. Don’t let his arm drop.
I need a teddy bear or something to stick beneath it, where my body was.
Alex, with a teddy bear? It’s cute. It’s sociopathic.
He’d probably rip the stuffing out when he finds me gone.
Teddy bear doesn’t deserve it.
Don’t have one, anyway.
I lower his arm carefully. Slip my hands away. Hold my breath.
He’s peaceful when he sleeps.
Shit, he’s going to be pissed when I’m not here when he wakes.
First, I need to not be here when he awakes.
I’m spiraling. Get a grip, Vicky. You’re stronger than this.
Am I, though?
I wasn’t strong enough to resist coming around his cock.
Okay, maybe I didn’t actually try that hard by that point.
God. Did he rape me, or did I agree? Thinking back, right now, I have no clue. I said ‘no’—that much I’m certain of. He heard yes—also pretty damn clear.
I sit on the edge of his bed and mouth the word ‘No.’ Lips moving correctly. No sound comes out, as he’s asleep beside me and I really want him to stay that way, so I can’t be certain. But I’m pretty damn sure it was no.
I’ll ask Carol when I get back home.
But then I begged him to fuck me. I distinctly remember that, too. Not just once, but twice.
Shit. No. Three times.
Oh my God, I need to get out of here.
Wearing what, precisely?
My dress is torn on the floor. My thong is God-knows-where. I have a pair of shoes. Bit cold to go out wearing nothing but shoes, though it would make getting a cab easy.
I ease off the bed. The curtains aren’t drawn, and there’s plenty of light from the city below. More than enough to tiptoe around, collecting my shoes.
There must be clothes somewhere. He has a walk-in wardrobe, but I don’t want to wear his. And the door might wake him.
His tux jacket. That’s something. Buttoned up, it’ll be long enough to cover me. Length, at least, even though it’ll look like…
…I’m naked beneath my ex-fiancé’s too-big jacket, having just been royally fucked.
How did my world get so damn surreal?
I slip it on anyway, shoes in my hand, and go for the door. A step at a time, heel-toe, rolling through it, silent. Hand on the handle. Turn, wince, pull.
There are lights on in the apartment, and even though they’re turned low, it floods in. Shit. Slip through, pull the door. Close it, or leave it ajar?
My heart’s racing.
I leave it a half-inch open rather than risk making another noise.
Maybe there’s something to wear in this apartment. There are other rooms. Another bedroom, if I recall. A guest room? With clothes?
Worth a try.
Even one of his T-shirts would be an improvement.
I pad through, finding the room I think it is. The door’s already open, and a little push is silent. It’s the right room. A bed, an en suite, clothing on a chair. It’s been used. It smells of… a woman.
And I immediately know which one.
She’s been here. In here. Recently.
But… in here. She’s been sleeping in here. Not in there.
I don’t understand. Why does she have her own room? Does she fuck him then come back in here? Who would do that?
I can’t process it right now, and I sure as hell am not wearing any of her clothes. I back out, leaving the door open. Alex can know I came in here; it’ll be good for him after he sucked on her tongue.
So that’s it. No other options for things to wear, unless I want to see if he has an apron around here somewhere.
His tux jacket comes down to midthigh. It’s not too bad, aside from the indecent amount of cleavage I’m showing.
So much side-boob my nipples are nearly on display.
And it only has two buttons. My coat might solve some of that problem, and I can always hold it closed if I have to.
It’s not real clothes—far from it—but it’ll be enough to get home. I hope.
Shit. Where are my keys? Where’s my goddamn phone?
Tell me I didn’t leave my clutch in his bedroom. I can’t go back in there and risk disturbing him. I’ll just have to wake Carol up instead. But that doesn’t work, because I can’t get home without either my phone or my bank cards, and they’re all in the same place.
How could I have been so stupid?
Then I see my coat on the floor of the hallway, a hint of green catching my eye. I cross to it with rapid paces, breathing in relief when I see my clutch. I must’ve dropped it when he kissed me. That possessive, controlling, toe-curling, panty-wetting kiss.
And I know just how goddamn wet I got, because he stuffed those same panties in my mouth.
Bastard.
Coat. Phone. Money. Stupidly large ill-fitting tux. That was as good as it was going to get.
I pull my shoes on by his front door, slip my coat over his jacket, and grab my clutch.
And I’m out the door, closing it as quietly as I can behind me. Pummeling the call button for the elevator, dreading the moment when his door opens and he stands there—naked?—and calls me back in.
The elevator arrives, and I hit the button for the lobby, willing the doors to close faster. Breathing for the first time when they finally do.
The coat gapes too much when it’s fastened, but I’ll just hold it. One cab ride, and I’ll be home.
And then what?
He knows where I live. He’ll just turn up again.
Where else can I go?
The ridiculous thought comes to me that I could hide in our house, the one in Westchester. The last place he’ll look for me. But he might just go there, even if he avoided it when we fucking lived there. It’s not a safe option.
Not Carol’s. No other friend I can drop in on at such short notice.
That only leaves one option.
My brother’s in Miami. We swap birthday and Christmas messages, and occasionally talk about his kids. I haven’t seen him in eighteen months. We get on just fine, it’s just… distant.
Story of my relationships.
I check the time. It’s barely midnight, but we left the ball early. Once I’m in the cab, I ping Chris a message anyway. And to my surprise, he responds before I’m halfway home.
It’s kinda late. Everything okay?
No, everything is not okay.
I’m fine. I just need somewhere to stay for a few days. Do you still have a spare room?
The three dots of him typing run across the bottom of my screen.
Of course. You’re always welcome. I can’t guarantee it’s a Lego-free zone, so you’ll have to watch where you walk. Everything alright with you and Alex?
Yeah. We’re fine. He just pinned me down and gave me three orgasms while I begged him not to start, then begged him not to stop. Perfectly fine.
A hiccup or two. How early tomorrow can I come?
The kids will have us up from six. Come when you want. Safe flights.
Safe flights. Right. Because I’ve got money to burn on flights.
I google the prices, and it’s $150 one-way. Three hundred if I want to come home. I’m not sure I do, right now.
And I owe Carol rent. Not to mention inconvenience money for when Alex inevitably beats her door down then finds I’m not there.
But… Alex has got plenty of money, and he’s the reason I have to go. This has just become an Alex-tax.
I might flinch at buying groceries on his credit card, but a break-from-Alex vacation? Hell yes. It’s his damn fault. I’ll consider it an invoice for emotional damage. Or a down payment on my sanity.
It takes me less than five minutes to book a flight on his card, and it leaves at five-twenty later this morning. Time to go home, pack, piss Carol off by waking her up, and be gone.
Hell, he can pay the airport transfer, too.
It means I won’t be able to meet Amelia any time soon, but there are no timescales on Lucy’s case. And it’s the weekend. Maybe I’ll be back next week.
Or maybe I won’t.